


The Letter

by GeorgeEmerson



Category: Poldark (TV 2015)
Genre: Gen, Ghosts, Hedgehogs, Jingling bells, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:00:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28268028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GeorgeEmerson/pseuds/GeorgeEmerson
Summary: The Enys and Poldark families are tasked with an unusual request from The Beyond.
Comments: 9
Kudos: 16
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	The Letter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lilliburlero](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilliburlero/gifts).



** Killewarren. 22 August 1797. **

“My dears,” Caroline said, lowering herself smoothly to perch on the edge of an immaculately trimmed red settee. “I have had the most extraordinary letter. A _posthumous_ letter. Have I not, Doctor Enys?”

Dwight pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing audibly. “You most certainly have, my love.”

“Posthumous?” inquired Ross curiously, looking from Caroline’s lovely – and carefully blank, he noted - face to Dwight’s unusually exasperated one. Next to Ross, Demelza did the same. 

They had just been seated in the great hall at Killewarren, having directly ridden over after receiving an urgent request to attend. Expecting disaster, they’d been relieved to find Killewarren as idyllic as ever. The clear, golden afternoon light eased its way through the high arched windows of the manor, making the wooden floors glow warmly and illuminating every careful stroke of the portraits hanging on the walls. Backlit by the rays, Demelza’s tousled hair had the look of a fiery halo (which Ross considered to be quite apt, truth be told). 

“Yes.” Caroline shifted a little stiffly in her seat, straightening her crisp blue gown. Ross felt, rather than heard, Dwight’s sigh this time. “Very posthumous, I am afraid. It’s why I bid you see us with such haste.” 

A long silence ensued during which Caroline and Dwight exchanged a series of increasingly agitated looks. Ross turned a polite face to a particularly dull tapestry and started to count cherubs; he was far too scarred from his own nonverbal marital sparring matches with Demelza to voluntarily involve himself in someone else’s.

It fell to Demelza, finally, to spur the conversation onward. “Oh?,” she asked with her broad friendly smile, prompting both Caroline and Dwight to cease the standoff. “What did the letter say? Or, I suppose, what’s more important is, who is it... or was it... from?”

Dwight pinched the bridge of his nose again. 

“I am so sorry,” Caroline said carefully, studiously not looking at her husband now. She reached across the small space and took one of Ross’s tanned hands in her own. “It’s truly such an oddity. The letter is, well, it’s from your Aunt Agatha. She has a request of you. Of all of us, actually. Involving Cary Warleggen.” 

“What?” Ross was taken aback. “That’s… a letter from my Aunt Agatha. Who is deceased, as you know, and has been nigh on two years. And it was sent to you? With a request regarding _Cary Warleggen_?” He dropped Caroline’s hand, blinking rapidly. “With all due respect, this is exceedingly strange.”

“A letter from Aunt Agatha from beyond the grave,” Demelza said, staring stunned at Caroline. “Judas.”

Ross turned to her, distractedly running a hand through his hair. “You agree, my love? This is bizarre.”

Dwight laughed ruefully. “My friends,” he said. “We have only _begun_ to explore the strangeness of this day. Would you each take a glass of port?”

“Quickly,” Ross responded. “And then another, likely two.” He turned back to Caroline. “Perhaps you can explain.”

Caroline gave Ross and Demelza a small smile. “Of course. This is unseemly, I know. And it is to my regret. Had I not known, had Doctor Enys not told me many times, of your bond with your aunt, I likely would have presumed it to be a cruel prank and chosen not to call any attention to it at all.”

“I remain unconvinced,” Dwight interjected, carrying two delicate gold-rimmed glasses filled with dark liquid towards his guests, “that it is _not_ a cruel prank. However, my wife assures me the consequences of not bringing it to your attention might be more detrimental than your presumption that Caroline and I have taken leave of our good senses." He cleared his throat. "Which appears to be the likely outcome of our meeting at this juncture.” 

He gently set the glasses down and coaxed a sheaf of neatly folded papers from his pocket. He handed them to Ross and, when Ross failed to take them as he was steadily downing his port, gave them to Demelza in turn. "My wife insisted that we must alert you to the letter in light of certain... supernatural threats leveled against us should we fail to do so."

Demelza looked decidedly uneasy as she gingerly took the pages. “Judas,” she said again, almost to herself. “Best brother Sam never hears of this, he may force me inside the church and board the doors.”

“You see,” Caroline continued. “Your sadly deceased aunt intends to haunt Cary Warleggen. Tonight. And she’s contacted Doctor Enys and I about it because she states she requires the use of my little dog, Horace, to do so.”

As if on cue, the small fawn pug stirred from where it lay contentedly in a particularly warm spot of sunlight and snorted.

** Trenwith. 22 August 1749.  **

Agatha wrinkled up her nose in frustration and slapped a hand down atop the cards laid out before her. The tall candles burning on either side of the small card table flickered sympathetically. 

"You spirits and fates, so called" Agatha announced drily to the empty room, "are a disappointment. I seek direction and meaning - and instead you give me stuff and nonsense. I have little planned today except to finish my needlepoint and yet you tell me that Death is looming." She considered this. "Needlepoint does feel like death, but I hardly think that's your meaning."

She pulled the large armchair closer to the fire; even though, outside, the sun shone and frogs could be heard merrily calling to one another in the pond, it remained stubbornly chilly in the shady, drafty sitting room. Plus, although she'd never quite admitted this fully to herself, the ambience provided by crackling flames seemed fitting for communication to the Other Realm. At least, significantly more so than sunshine, frogs, and little boys. 

Little boys. There was one now, out by the pond - a stranger, she reckoned, a slightly portly little fellow with a blotchy faced dressed in brown breeches and tall boots. She rose and walked to the window, watching him for a moment, considering whether she ought to call one of the servants and have him dismissed from the property. He appeared to be harmless, merely a boy of about 9 or 10, and did not seem to notice the great house or Agatha within it at all. Instead, he was looking for something, stumbling through the reeds at one side of the pond and trodding unevenly across the muddy embankment. 

Goose flesh prickled Agatha's arms. Unbidden, her mind returned to the cards. She looked once more at the boy, now leaning quite precariously over the water's edge, attempting to fish something out of the murky depths with a stick. 

"Damnation," she muttered and hurried outside. 

Tall and lean, even now in her late 50s, Agatha strode purposefully across the lawn. The stiff material of her dark skirts crackled as she moved. 

She arrived just in time. The boy had finally over-extended himself and had toppled, face first, into the brown water below. He struggled, tiny waves rippling away from his body, as he became entangled in the submerged plants and weighed down by the weight of his sodden clothes. His mouth was barely an inch from the surface, but when he opened it for air, only muddy water rushed in. She could see his form splutter and shake as he writhed. A small white hand opened and closed above the surface, frantically. 

Agatha reached out and grabbed him. Using all her might, and having to step knee-deep into the water herself, she hauled him up - at first just enough to allow him to breath. Then, bracing as well she could against the slippery mud slope, she hoisted the boy up and back, out of the water. They both fell back onto the soggy lawn, gasping for air. The boy rolled off her, one ankle still encased by slimy green tendrils, and kneeled all fours. He coughed madly. 

Agatha sat up, a little grim outwardly but secretly thrilled. What excitement! And confirmation that her connection with The Unknown was stronger than ever. 

"Child," she said, reaching over to pat the boy on the back. "You'll survive. I saved you," she added a bit proudly. "And perhaps when you're done expelling all the toads you swallowed, you can tell me what precisely you are seeking here in our pond."

The boy hefted himself to a standing position. He looked, Agatha was shocked to see, angry. His face was red and tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. 

"Where," he pointed an accusing finger at her, "is your husband?"

"My husband," she repeated, astonished. She stood and drew herself up to her full height. "No such man exists. Or is needed, I don't hesitate to add."

"Then who is master of this estate? Who is the person who failed to place a fence around this pond? I could have died," he added with a dramatic gesture. Agatha, who knew this to be true, nonetheless felt her sympathy vanish. 

"You're an unpleasant little boy," she said acidly. "Perhaps the responsibility for your near demise lies with you, young sir, who seems incapable of staying off other people's property, keeping your balance around their ponds, or showing gratitude when rescued."

He seemed slightly chastened by this. "Well. I do thank you, Miss, for helping me," he said unconvincingly.

" _Saving_ you," Agatha corrected. 

"Saving me," he echoed back wryly. 

"Saving your LIFE," she added and raised an eyebrow expectantly. 

"Saving my life," he parroted, although she could still see the heat in his cheeks. He bowed his head slightly. "I'm Cary Warleggen."

"Warleggen, eh?" Agatha considered this. "I'm not familiar with that name. This is Poldark land you stand on, child, and I am Miss Poldark. What is a Warleggen doing here anyway?"

"I came with my father, who has business at one of the mines," Cary explained sulkily. He shifted his feet, causing a wet sucking sound to arise from his boots. "I..." he trailed off. "He bade me to walk about so as not to interrupt him, although I do not know why since I am of great assistance to his ventures."

Agatha nodded sardonically. "I see." 

Cary eyed her. "I am," he insisted. "Anyway, I lost my pet as I walked. It ran off and I thought it came here. I was searching and that's... that's when I fell."

Agatha looked around them, not seeing signs of any pets. She opened her mouth to say as much, when Cary piped up once more. "And if," he continued, "Miss, there had been a proper fence around this dangerous watery calamity as there ought to be then --"

"Dangerous watery calamity!" Agatha hooted, slapping one knee in unladylike merriment. "Be gone, Cary Warleggen, or I'll see you off the property myself. I don't need a man to remove a wet thimbleful of malice like you. I'll simply use the soles of my shoes if you don't heed." She looked down at her feet, grimacing a bit at the blotted and mangled silk. "Ruined by your carelessness though they are."

"No, please," Cary looked down, clenching his jaw. "Please, Miss, I must find my pet."

Agatha waited. When nothing further came, rude nor otherwise, she asked. "What kind of a pet?"

"A hedgehog," Cary said. "It's name is Truepenny."

Agatha stared at him. "A hedgehog named Truepenny. And you were seeking it in the pond because hedgehogs are known to be fond of the water?"

"No, I --" Cary cleared his throat, coughing up a bit of brown water. "I saw its little collar in the water. Or believed I did. Still, Miss, have you seen him? Can you help me?"

Agatha waited again. 

"Please." Cary added through gritted teeth. And there is was again, a small glint of tear in the corner of one of his eyes. "Truepenny is my greatest friend."

Agatha sighed. "Alright, I'll help you. But have you considered, unpleasant young sir, that you might have a human friend or two if you showed a little more respect and a little less of that sharp presumptuous tongue?"

Cary looked mutinous. But together, they began to check the places round the pound where a hedgehog might hide: under the edges of overhanging plants, deep in the soft soil by the roots of trees, between the tiny shrubs that edged the house itself. The hot mid-day wore on into afternoon. 

Finally, as Agatha was about to truly dismiss Cary back to his father for want of refreshment and change of gown, she saw it. A soft, small ear surrounded by salt-and-pepper quills was just protruding from behind the base of the Yew tree. 

"Here!" Agatha yelled, beckoning Cary, who trundled over as quickly as soaking pants and squelching boots would allow. "Truepenny has been found." She pointed and Cary, with far more tenderness than he'd shown thus fair in their acquaintance, reached out and plucked Truepenny from the hiding spot. 

Cary held the hedgehog in cupped hands, cooing. "Truepenny! You naughty thing, I had such a devil of a time finding you. And where is your collar? I am relieved to see you."

When he saw Agatha watching him with a slightly amused expression, he turned and held out the animal to her. "Truepenny thanks you," he said formally, bowing. "As do I, Miss."

Agatha graciously inclined her head. "And now you must be off, Cary Warleggen. But first -- " she had a thought. "Wait here. Do not fall into the pond again while I am gone, mind."

He didn't laugh -- though Agatha did to herself -- and she once more strode across the lawn. Inside, she found her sewing basket and dug deep into it's depths, finally enclosing her fingers around a ribbon and the small metal object she sought. 

Back outside, she produced it for him. A tiny bell, like a cat might wear, with a bit of black velvet ribbon threaded through. "To replace Truepenny's collar," she explained. "Now you'll not lose it again. Or if you do, you'll have no one to blame but yourself."

Cary tied to collar round the hedgehog's tiny neck and gentle shook it the bell, which tinkled lightly. He smiled. 

"Goodbye, Miss Poldark," he said. 

"Mr. Warleggen," she replied, inclining her head. "Until we meet once more."

As he walked off, carrying Truepenny, she shouted after him. "Recall that it was me who saved your life when you retell this story, young man! Not some husband!" 

** Trenwith. 22 August 1797. **

“This is complete folly and madness,” Ross said loudly, standing in a row of sculpted shrubs with hands on hips. A few hundred yards away, across the flat grassy lawn, Trenwith rose tall and pale – still easily visible despite the dark night. The home’s arched windows were filled with a pale light. Ross could see vague, dark figures moving about behind them. 

There was a rustling of leaves as his wife’s delicate arm appeared out of the foliage next to him. She grabbed the hem of his coat and tugged harshly. “Hush now, Ross,” Demelza hissed, “and get down. Someone’ll see you.”

Ross blew out a frustrated breath, but lowered himself awkwardly behind the bushes. Demelza was crouched there, voluminous green skirts puddling around her ankles, picking twigs from her hair. Next to her, Horace sat looking very unconcerned. 

“Madness,” Ross said again, gesturing. “Are we quite sure this is not a mean-spirited Warleggen jest meant to lure us into humiliation? Even if it is not, George is like to discover us skulking about and promptly set his armed thugs upon us. Oh, I can just see it.” Ross rearranged his normally genial features into half-lidded, sullen smirk. “Well, Ross,” he imitated, “'this is well met. I see you’ve added trespass and vandalism to your list of crimes against my family – and brought a vicious attack animal onto my property to threaten the safety of my wife, myself and the Warleggen heir!'” 

Horace raised a stout hind leg to scratch at one floppy ear. 

“'I’ll have you know that’s an offense punishable by death!’” Ross continued smarmily in his best George voice. “And then, Demelza, I will be forced to fight – and, once more, poor Elizabeth will suffer the abject humiliation of watching her husband be bested by me in physical combat.”

Demelza rolled her eyes. “Yes, Ross.”

He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Explain the plan to me once more, my love” he said resignedly.

Demelza peered through the leaves toward the house. “Aunt Agatha’s letter said that she… I admit, Ross, I feel a fool. But nonetheless,” she soldiered onwards, “Aunt Agatha’s letter said her spirit would appear here at Trenwith tonight, it being 50 years from the day when she saved Cary Warleggen as a child.”

Ross nodded, clearly dubious. 

“When she do, we will know because she will raise a ruckus to scare Cary and George and whoever else remains awake inside. And _then_ ,” Demelza smoothed her hands down her skirts and retrieved a small silver bell from her pocket, “we tie this round little Horace’s neck and send him off to Caroline across the lawn. She will beckon him from the tree line at the far side of the lawn.” 

“Madness,” muttered Ross. Demelza grinned. 

“And Cary will hear the bell tinkling outside the house, recall his childhood pet,” Ross concluded, “and emerge to investigate. At which point, Aunt Agatha promises to materialize and give him a piece of her venerable mind for all the mistreatment she suffered at his hands and the hands of his despicable nephew. And _we_ will know whether we are gullible imbeciles or in the presence of a spirit risen from the dead.”

He considered for a moment. “Which do you prefer, my love?”

“Mm?” Demelza responded distractedly. Her eyes remained fixed on the house, presumably waiting for some kind of sign. 

“Would you rather we are gullible imbeciles or in the presence of unnatural spirits?”

“Well,” she turned an amused face towards his. “I’ve been your wife for nearly seven years now, I should think I’ve become quite accustomed to unnatural spirits by this time! But in truth, I do not kno--”

Just then, a great howling surrounded Trenwith. Although the night remained calm -- not even the leaves hiding Ross and Demelza stirred - gusts of wind whipped round the house itself, rattling the windows and whistling as it rushed through tiny passages in the stonework. Tiny pebbles bounded and cracked against the glass, shrieking branches dragged themselves like bony ghoulish fingers. 

From inside the house, Ross and Demelza heard confused showing and shrieks. Above the din, George could be heard hollering for Tom Harry. "Get your men! This is his doing," George was yelling, "Ross Poldark!" 

At this, a bevy of frogs were suddenly lifted, dripping, from the pond and launched loudly into the window with a horrifying wet _splat_. Inside, the shouting stopped short. Ross imagined he could hear George's whimpering from inside. The frogs, dazed but otherwise unharmed, fell to the ground and woozily croaked to one another as they took cover. 

Demelza reached out to clutch Ross's hand. "D'you think that's the sign, Ross?"

"That's not the sign," came Agatha's raspy and ragged voice from directly behind Demelza's shoulder. "This is the sign, nephew."

Ross's breathing ceased and he feared he might faint. Demelza, with eyes larger than he'd ever seen and with terrifically shaking hands, tied a bell around Horace's plump neck. She clapped twice. 

Across the yard, a faint voice called out in response. "Horace! Come to me, Horace!"

The pug, unperturbed by the freakish localized weather, trotted calmly out into the open. Suddenly, all other sounds ceased -- and the only noise was the cheery chiming of the bell round Horace's neck. 

A be-wigged head inched itself cautiously out the front door. "Who is there? What the devil is going on?" Cary boomed in a deep voice. He did not notice the small dog against the dark grass. Then, more quietly, "Truepenny?" 

The only response was the sound of Horance jingling the few final steps into Caroline's waiting arms. 

Cary Warleggen stepped out onto the lawn. The sky flashed and growled. Before him, a dark figure began to materialize.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Yuletide! I adore Poldark beyond words & I am so pleased to be able to provide this treat — featuring two of the most under-used & interesting characters, as well. This was an incredible amount of fun to write, I sincerely hope you enjoy reading it. 
> 
> *with acknowledgment to LM Boston from whom I shamelessly stole the name & concept of Truepenny.


End file.
